


Smaointe (a thought)

by Spatchcock



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: AU, AUish, Gen, Soval is T'Pol's father, Vulcan Culture, Xindi, expanse, pondering, worrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatchcock/pseuds/Spatchcock
Summary: There has been no word from T'Pol for months. He has kept track of transmissions from the Expanse, and knows that communication between Starfleet and its desperate flagship has been intermittently successful. There have been deaths. She has not been among them. She is simply silent.
Why has she not contacted him?





	

**Author's Note:**

> originally written as a gift for Peggy, T'Pol's biggest fan and defender. kisses!
> 
> When this was written, we were speculating that Soval was T'Pol's father, so that's the "AU" part. Otherwise canon-compliant.

            He meditates.

            This is the time of day he has set aside for meditation, and succeeds, with rare interruptions. Diplomats have certain duties and obligations. Senior diplomats have certain privileges.

            He mediates to clear his mind, to resolve unanswered questions which still remain at day’s end, or at least to resolve to set them aside for another time. Working with humans all day as he does, there are often...ruffled feathers, his assistant once phrased it. He finds this image elegant, almost poetic. Strong winds could ruffle the feathers of bird, but a moment of grooming and care can set them aright once more.

            Soval finds each feather of disturbance, preens it into place. Considers the details of several negotiations of which he is part, makes a note here and there about a possible suggestion for the next meeting, analyzes the emotional reactions of some of the junior, human staff regarding a sporting event.

            But one issue refuses to be soothed or dismissed: a cowlick of concern, stubbornly jutting into his consciousness.

            T’Pol.

            On _Enterprise_ , that frail and barely tested _human_ vessel, in the Delphic Expanse, which has already claimed two Vulcan ships.

            He warned her. Warned her captain. Archer —

            _Distaste is an emotion. Accept it. Embrace it. Move past it. Cast it out. Emotion speeds the heat-death._ There are enough purely logical reasons to find the human to be less than acceptable as a commander, or companion; he does not need to dislike the man.

            Soval did what he could, and then did more. He appealed to T’Pol professionally, personally, paternally. Still she chose to go.

            There has been no word from her for months. He has kept track of transmissions from the Expanse, and knows that communication between Starfleet and its desperate flagship has been intermittently successful. There have been deaths. She has not been among them. She is simply silent.

            This worries him. He does not like to worry. It is a particularly wasteful emotion. Excess weight, diminishing the efficiency of flight.

            He wishes her to return safely, of course. He grieves for all the deaths of her shipmates. He strongly desires a peaceful solution to the conflict with the Xindi. Any sentient being would feel thus.

            Why has she not contacted him? 

            Does she not wish to contact him?

            He had not disowned her, or called her dishonorable or shameful for her decision to join the human mission. They had disagreed about her course of action. Hardly novel. Certainly not worthy of a formal distancing. The order to return to Vulcan had come from the High Command, not from him. His objections had been much greater when she entered the Vulcan Security Force, and they had dined together two to six times a month during that period.

            Is she being prevented from contacting him?

            Archer — the captain was naïve, volatile, overly trusting, but part of his hostility towards Vulcankind apparently stemmed from some insult he felt had been visited upon his father. So it is illogical to think that he would convince her not to contact her own father, or keep her from doing so by force or rule.

            The reports to Starfleet are primarily from the captain. In the beginning, other officers’ comments were appended, including T’Pol’s. The last half-dozen messages have been terse updates, two in code. It seems _Enterprise_ is coming close to the weapon, and the crew understandably does not wish to risk revealing information, or their position, to the enemy. But even allowing for such self-protective censorship, those recent reports do not mention so much as her name, or anything she may have contributed to their mission.

            Is she incapable of contacting him?

            Soval has seen the tapes from _Vaankara_. He is aware of what the Expanse did to a ship filled with Vulcans. Could whatever madness which infected _Vaankara_ have taken T’Pol as well? _Enterprise_ found _Seleya_ some months ago — “all hands lost,” no further explanation. Could another, previously unknown force have injured her, and possibly others? This would be critical tactical information, which Archer might sensibly withhold from any report to prevent discovery by the Xindi. T’Pol had remained on the human ship to offer her guidance and assistance. He cannot determine if she is continuing to give either — if, in fact, she is able to do anything.

            In three-point-seven-two months there has been no word from her at all. And this worries him deeply.

_Insufficient data. Pointless to speculate at this time._

            And yet he does, almost every day when he meditates. He speculates, and considers, and worries.

            And he hopes.

            Hope is an emotion. Accept it. Embrace it. Move past it. Cast it out —

            He finds, illogically, that he prefers not to cast out hope.

            In the difficult days after the Xindi attack, the humans had spoken of having hope. They called it a light in the darkness, a guide, a lamp unto their feet.

            Perhaps, in the darkness of the Expanse, T’Pol needs a light.

            He opens his eyes and rises from his kneeling position on the meditation mat. There is a family heirloom he keeps in a cabinet in the next room. He has carried it with him, one of a small number of personal items, from one posting to the next. In his entire life he has never used the item for its intended purpose. Until now.

            The lamp is a _sruk bel malet_ , a traveler’s beacon. This particular malet is twelve generations old. Originally a literal point of reference for hunters returning to the clan camp, or a way to mark water sources in Vulcan’s relentless desert, over thousands of years of civilization it has become more symbolic. A beacon is placed in the window when a family member is gone on a long journey. The light marks the path home. When the first Vulcan deep-space missions had embarked, some residential areas were so filled with bright pinpricks that it seemed the villages were trying to merge with the starry sky which their children had gone to explore.

            The beacon is in perfect working order, as befits an honored possession. He fills it with fuel, trims the wick, and lights it. The small glow satisfies him.

            Soval turns down the illumination in the main area of the living quarters and moves to the window facing the street. He looks down, at the bustle of the city outside the Vulcan compound, at the humans finishing their work, enjoying their recreation, dining, visiting, commuting, idling. Although he would never explain it to any of them, he suspects they would understand the malet very well. And approve.

            He cannot smooth down the disquieted feather, so he laves the irritation with hope. And after all, it is more logical to light a candle than to curse the darkness.

            He places the lamp on the windowsill and draws the curtain.

_Beloved daughter. Return home. Safely. Soon._

**Author's Note:**

> All Trek stuff is property of Paramount, not me. All profits go to Paramount, not me. “Smaointe” is by Enya, lyrics by Roma Ryan; property of them and not me. All profits go to them and not me.


End file.
